If I Die Before I Wake by Barb Rogers Page B

being, and she loved me anyway. From her, I learned what it meant to be a lady, to have dignity and self-esteem, to believe there is a purpose. Like Aunt Ruthie, she was sure there was more to me than met the eye. But how will I do it without her?
    An hour later, my talk is over. I can barely recall what I said. It's like I was possessed, the words coming through me but not from me. There is applause. People stand, hug me, and shake my hand as I make my way through the crowd. I smile and nod, their words falling on deaf ears. I want to go home. I want to rip off the clothing that feels like it's strangling my body. I want to snuggle up with Angel and sleep away the pain. In the back of my mind, I want to drink. I am exhausted, tired of life kicking me in the ass every time I think things are getting better.
    At home, I automatically grab the mail from the mailbox, open the door to let Angel out, and step inside to the absolutequietness of my three rooms. The cardboard boxes stacked in the middle of the living room remind me I'll be moving soon, starting a new life. Panic takes my breath away. I slide down the door to the floor and stare at the boxes. I'm 38 years old, and my entire life is packed in four boxes and a trash bag. What am I doing? What if I do this, start over, allow myself to love fully and completely, and I get stomped on again?
    ——

    I can't move, can't shut the memories out. Eighteen years ago, on March 8, Jon's fifth birthday, we stepped off the bus into a snowstorm in Mattoon, Illinois. We had had to get out of Winslow, Arizona in a hurry. When my abusive husband was hospitalized for a back problem, I put my plan of escape into action. I'd been stealing money from the country club where he worked as a golf pro and I ran the restaurant. I had hocked a ring I found in the kitchen. I had skimmed what cash I could from the purchasing funds for groceries, always careful not to get caught. No sooner had he been admitted to the hospital, and I was digging my cache out of its hiding place inside the back of a zip-off couch cushion and running out the door to buy bus tickets for Jon and me. Mattoon, Illinois, the only place I knew anyone, far enough away that my husband wouldn't find me and kill me, seemed the logical choice.
    With two suitcases, a bread bag full of bacon sandwiches, and a jug of tea, we were on the bus and headed out of town. I tried to appear calm for my son's sake, pretending that we weregoing on a vacation, while my heart beat so fast I felt like I'd run a footrace. I kept looking over my shoulder out the back window to see if we were being followed. I didn't know what I was going to do, but anything would be better than the way I'd been living. I closed my eyes and felt the tension melt away with the humming of the wheels against the highway as they took me away.
    Nervous and excited, my lively son gobbled up the bag of sandwiches in a hurry. By the second day, the food was gone, and money had dwindled to a bit of change. I cased the bus, wondering if I could get away with stealing from the other passengers. If I got caught, we'd be put off. I decided to wait until the next bus stop, where I might be able to do some shoplifting. But what would happen to Jon if I got arrested? When the situation looked hopeless, three sailors got on the bus and sat directly in front of us. Jon, a gregarious child who'd never met a stranger, made friends with them quickly.
    After chatting with them, they told me if I wanted to get some rest, they'd keep an eye on Jon. I fell into a deep sleep and woke with a start when I realized the bus was stopped. The sailors were gone, and my son was gone. I was ready to scream when suddenly they all stepped onto the bus laughing, one young man carrying Jon. They handed me a cup of coffee and a wrapped hamburger. I never knew if Jon told them that we were out of food, if they figured it out, or were simply nice young men, but they fed us for the remainder of the trip. They